


The Modern Apostle

by wimberries



Category: Outlast (Video Games), Outlast 2 - Fandom, Outlast Whistleblower
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hurt, I didn't want to disrupt the natural ending of the game, M/M, MILES IS DEAD I'M SO SORRY, Miles Upshur - Freeform, Murkoff Corporation, Reader-Insert, Short One Shot, Walrider Miles Upshur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-21 08:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11353833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wimberries/pseuds/wimberries
Summary: You curl back into yourself when you receive the news: Miles Upshur is dead.Dead.This is not a trick—not a cruel, twisted prank, nor the selfish ploy of a heartless Murkoff employee; the man that you fell in love with, the brave freelance investigative journalist, is no longer with you, and you somehow knew it. In the early hours of the morning, there was a growing pain in your chest and you knew something was wrong.Hopeless but hoping, you begin to lose the feeling of someone else being at the end of the tether that once connected you to Miles Upshur swiftly. You grow desperate.





	1. Genesis

_ Mount Massive Asylum for the Criminally Insane is a mean, and terrifying place.  _

 

_ So when you wake up in the Underground Lab, somewhere near the Morphogenic Engine, your reaction to the displacement of your once sleeping body is entirely appropriate. You scramble to your feet, startled and irrefutably bewildered. Recognizing the lost, yet somehow purposeful and determined, soul that is your boyfriend is all you can do to keep a scream in your throat as it threatens to tear itself out. You don't remember following Miles to that place, you don't even remember leaving the sanctity of your bed; yet there you are, and there he is— _

 

_ The one thing that does haunt your memory are the happenings of the day before. There is a bright computer screen, and an email from an anonymous source, a whistleblower, alerting several reporters of the transgressions occurring at Mount Massive. It arrives in your inbox too, and you can tell, without even opening it, that the email is undeniably exigent. Miles comes into the room you two share, laptop in hand and, true to his character, disheveled. You nod, your tongue devoid of words for the first time since you met the young man in college. Unfortunately, you had already made prior commitments to another story—something about a missing and/or dead pregnant woman—and Miles recognizes this as an opportunity to take an exclusive and make it his own. For the first time in a long time, he was prepared to expose something to the public, and be taken seriously as the dedicated investigative journalist he was.  _

 

_ You remember trying to bargain with him too. There was something about the impressive urgency of the email that shook you down to your core, and you felt, you truly felt, in your soul that no good would come of Miles leaving for Mount Massive. There was a heavy feeling on your chest that you couldn't shake, but Miles was too stubborn, an invincible force to stop once he was set on an idea. He begged for you to understand that this was his big break, considering the heavy influence that Murkoff had, an exposé like this was invaluable.  _

 

_ In the end, you couldn't stop him. You knew you couldn't, though you tried your hardest, your attempts were fruitless. He finally kissed your forehead, a meaningful goodbye, climbed into his 1987 Jeep Wrangler, iconic to you now, and drove away while you watched from the small window of the apartment that the two of you shared on your small salaries. _

 

_ —your eyes follow him as he struggles with something as mundane as walking and your heart sinks.  _

 

_ "Miles!" You can hear yourself cry, calling to him, though he doesn't seem to hear you. _

 

_ Just his appearance makes tears sting your eyes: his clothes are torn, tattered, covered in both foreign and familiar blood. There are bruises on his face, and his eyes seem to scream that they've seen too many horrors unknown to you. On top of that, his face is bloody, and he's missing two fingers. Exactly what criminal acts were committed against him are decidedly undisclosed to you, what is unknown is left to your wild imagination. _

 

_ Your thoughts make you want to hurl. _

 

_ You've always hated crying in front of him because he's incredibly strong, and the last thing you wanted to seem to him was weak, but you can't help yourself. In your desperate state, you run to him, but you find that you can't ever reach him. Watching him fumble up a set of stairs while clutching at his abdomen is painful even to you, and you follow to the best of your abilities, staying as close as your dream-like stupor will allow. It still isn't close enough. Continue calling, screaming his name, but to no avail. His ears are deaf to your cries, his skin is blind to your touch. Following him through the stairs without being able to help him, you watch him teeter through a hallway from behind and notice that there is now a dark aura surrounding him. It goes by excused as tricks that your vision is playing on you, and your brain denies you focusing on anything that isn't his safety. He trips a couple of times, he falls twice.  _

 

_ 'He's coming home to you,' your hopeful thoughts ring at the back of your head, but a feeling in your gut says otherwise. Upon reaching the double doors that promise an exit, even Miles seems encouraged.  _

 

_ The last thing that either of you expect to see on the other side of the double doors is an ancient man in a wheelchair and a barrage of armed men. Panic begins to rise in your throat in the form of bile, heart rate increases, eyes widen. Your mind tells you that the presence of soldier-like men should be reassuring to you and Miles, yet you both hold your hands out in front of you, a sign that you come in peace, a plea for life. A meek surrender.  _

 

_ Wordlessly, in perfect sync, the soldiers raise their guns to Miles. Not to you, they don't see you.  _

 

_ "No, wait! Please, don't—!"  _

 

_ Your words are meaningless. _

 

_ Someone pulls their trigger and your ears are immediately torrented by an onslaught of booms, big ones, fast clicks. You can't look, you can't look, you can't look. You can't bring yourself to watch those sick madmen make ribbons of Miles' innards with a fury of bullets. You can't watch them melt him with a ridiculous amount of firepower. You can't watch them because you are helpless to stop them. Because you cannot save him. That much was made obvious to you the second you recognized you couldn't even touch him. The scream that was caught in your throat from earlier finally tears itself from its place followed by a shaken sob, still not loud enough to overpower the sound of gunshots and Miles crying out in pain, his cries agonizing to your brain, reverberating in your bones, shaking your entire person. And it isn't until you don't hear anything else that you can look to the unjustified, profoundly immoral act committed before you. You see his limp body, a puddle of his blood and the faces of several unmoved soldiers. You're forced into a silent state of shock, your throat betrays you, your tongue is motivated in twisted ways, your legs fail you. You fall too, but you can't touch him. You can't hold him and promise him that he's safe now because he's not. You stare from within a glass box invisible even to you. Your uselessness kills you and it is all bereft of mercy.  _

 

_ Gathering your voice and the remnants of your sanity, you scream, and scream, and scream— _

 

_ — _ and wake up feverish, clutching your chest.

 

Frenzied, you look to your right side where the sleeping form of your boyfriend should be, you touch around in the darkness, seeking his warmth; he isn't there. The sheets on that side are empty, freezing. An involuntary cry escapes from the back of your throat and tears slip down your face, obscuring your vision of the digital clock on your nightstand. Blinking, you ready yourself to read the bright, neon-green numbers. 

 

3:37 AM.

 

Recognizing that your visions of the premature, violent death of your boyfriend were nothing but a nightmare concocted by the inner mechanisms of a mind plagued by worry, you force yourself to lay down after scooting over to his side of the bed. Your brain tells you that laying yourself down on his side of the bed will not only lower your core temperature, but also provide a sense of comfort in the disquieting absence of his embrace. It's colder on his side of the bed, and it smells like the salts he uses during his evening bubble baths. Regardless, you know you won't be sleeping for a while.

 

Hours later (can't be past 5:30 AM), your mind, overwrought with an immense sense of pain and loss, keeps you awake, making obscure shapes of the pattern in the ceiling guided by the breaking light of a red dawn. 

 

Sleep doesn't come easy to you until a few minutes after that, but when it does, it's dreamless and irrefutably shallow.


	2. Lamentations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Growing desperate over the disappearance of Miles Upshur, you begin to lament about the day you two met and the day you realized that you loved each other.   
> Determined now to go to Mount Massive yourself and find him, you gather supplies to aid you in what seems like a hopeless quest.   
> Hearing two approaching voices outside your door put an abrupt halt on your short lived investigation.

_ August 24, 2009 _

_ American University School of Communication _

 

 

The sky threatened with rain the day that you met Miles Upshur.

 

 

August 24th, you distinctly remember that it was a Monday, marked the day that you started your final years of receiving official government education at the American University School of Communication. It had always been a dream of yours to be a journalist, ever since you were ten, even if you didn’t know what type then (to be honest, you didn’t even know there was more than one type). You were inspired by Lois Lane, finding admiration for her gallantry, her obstinacy and her irrevocable magnetism for handsome, cape-clad men. Admittedly, you knew that you would never find yourself in the clutches of a deranged super villain, but you could dream. Journalism was the first step to get there regardless. 

 

 

You never imagined that pursuing a career in journalism would land you in the arms of Miles Upshur, someone who had the same dream as you (save for the superheroes and super villains bit), but had three times the boldness as you.

 

 

It was in a communications class—the name would always escape you, it went along the lines of COM 263, Introduction to Intercultural Communication, or something like that—that the two of you were destined to cross paths. It couldn’t have been anything but fate. The classroom was more unconventional than any other one at the university. This one had rounded tables spread about the room with four chairs to each one. It was written in the stars that he would be sat at one by himself, right by the door, and all the other tables would be occupied to their maximum capacity. The only other alternative being a table all to yourself, though you read the online syllabus for the class and it had read that group work would be a critical part of the curriculum.  The professor was sitting at her desk, busily clacking away at the keyboard for what could have been nothing but an angry email, based on her expression. 

 

 

“Just take a seat wherever you can find one,” she instructed with a dismissive wave of her hand. 

 

 

You take your place at the table he was sitting at and glance around the room anxiously. All of your peers seem to already be making friends, but Miles was too engrossed in the screen of his laptop to even look up at you. You clear your throat, though you find that your attempts to get his attention are abortive. You are invisible to him. 

 

 

“Hi,” you say finally, sheepishly, after a few more moments of silence. 

 

 

He looks up, seemingly unamused by your struggle to get his attention, though you find solace in the fact that he finally acknowledged your presence at his table. 

 

 

“Hey,” he responds, though his eyes quickly return to the laptop screen before him.

 

 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip, a habit you picked up from your mother, and tap your fingers on the plastic table. Miles looks up again, bidding you to cease your restlessness with just a tired stare of his eyes. Your fingers immediately halt and your teeth release the inside of your lip. You open your mouth to say something, something that would likely come across as nothing but a nuisance to the young man, but the professor interrupts you. 

 

 

“Alright, class! My name is Cheryl Carr, I’m your professor, so you may call me Professor Carr,” she pauses, “I will not answer to anything else. For today, considering that this  _ is  _ a communications class, all I will have you do is communicate. Talk to your tablemates about what you did over your brief vacation, tell them your favorite band, or movie. Tomorrow we get down to the nitty gritty, I’m afraid I’m too lazy today and I did not efficiently map out a study plan. Really get to know each other, too. This class requires a lot of interaction with your peers, so I suggest you start liking the people that you’re sitting with.” 

 

 

Scattered chuckling rises from the class as the professor sits back down, going back to tearing at her keys with her furious typing. 

 

 

Before you, Miles Upshur closes his laptop with a heavy sigh and meets your eyes. Already, before you even open your mouth, his gaze is bored, fatigued by the idea of actually having to be social. 

 

 

“Miles Upshur,” he says, though his voice is uncharacteristically attentive and carries a sort of city-boy diction, as he holds out his hand for you to shake from across the table. 

 

 

You lean forward extending your arm to take his hand, shaking it. Introduce yourself as (Y/N)(L/N) and lean back into your chair. He leans forward, putting his elbow on the table and holding his tilted head with his arm. 

 

 

 

_ This is the day you realize how attractive he is. _

 

 

“So, (Y/N),” he starts, tone inquisitive. He would make a great journalist, you think to yourself. “What did you do over break?” 

 

 

You’re staring, you realize too late, and look down to your backpack, seeking anything to distract you from the young man before you. Swallow back some of your nervousness, you speak. 

 

 

“I didn’t really do much.” You explain slowly, “I said goodbye to some high school friends, uh, applied for some last minute scholarship money. Oh! I did go to Universal Studios, though! That was fun.” Laughing nervously, you go back to biting the inside of your bottom lip. He picks up on that, though you won’t realize this until much later in your relationship. “What did you do?”

 

 

He leans back into his seat, more relaxed than you. “Visited Colorado, explored around the wild Arizonan desert. I had an internship with this newsroom here in D.C., that was pretty sick. What kind of music do you listen to?” 

 

 

“Oh, lots of different kinds.” You smile at him, gaining some of the confidence that was coming from him, “save for country music.” 

 

 

“Thank goodness!” He laughs, “now we can really be friends. Do you like rock music?” 

 

 

“‘God Only Knows,’” you answer then, “my father raised me to appreciate this kind of music. It’s a dying breed, but I love it.” 

 

 

He seems impressed now, this you can tell by the raise in his eyebrow and the growing, boyish grin on his face. “The Beach Boys,” he approves, acknowledging your well-placed reference to one of their popular songs. “You know, (Y/N), I think that this,” he gestures to the two of you with his hands waving in the space between you, “is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” 

 

**______________**

 

_ August 2, 2010 _

_ Lincoln Memorial, Washington DC _

 

 

It wasn’t too hot that day. You and Miles had just finished your first very demanding year at the University and decided to a take a trip to the Lincoln Memorial to celebrate. He drove most of the way there, despite you constantly poking fun at the way his hands remained firm on nine and three. He would always reply with something along the lines of, “It’s safer this way,” or, “fine, if you want me to stop driving like a soccer mom, I guess we can both die.” Regardless, you liked watching him drive. There was something about watching from the passenger side at those who were driving that always made you admire them more; your parents, your exes, your friends. Then it came to Miles, who always had all of your admiration, and attention, and was the number one source of your laughter. 

 

 

He was always good at making you laugh. 

 

 

The only thing that you two listened to on your way there was Pink Floyd. Miles claimed that it helped him to not be so tense behind the wheel, though they only made you want to curl up and sleep, which you did on multiple occasions. At least it was soothing music for both of you, you thought.

 

 

You two had been dating for about eleven months, coming up on a year in just one month. You found that your impassiveness perfectly complemented his ambition, and other times dim-witted impulsive behavior. For you, at least, those eleven months have been the happiest that you have ever been. For fear of Miles losing respect for you, you had never allowed yourself to grow clingy, or needy. You didn’t need to see each other everyday to stay happy, which made you look forward to every single date that the two of you had planned. You liked being with Miles because dates ranged from fancy evening dinners, to watching movies in his apartment and scarfing down as much pizza as you can, to staying up at unhealthy hours of the morning talking about everything and yet nothing at all. 

 

 

He held your hand the entire way to the moment even though they were sweaty from the mild heat, he never let go. You two had been there before, but there was something about the sincerity of the late president’s stone gaze that kept you both coming back whenever you had some free time and wanted to go out without blowing a whole lot of money (which neither of you had as college students). The same things were done on the date: walk around the grassy field, complaining about school, visit the the Washington Monument (he liked to call it the big, pointless obelisk), walk back to Lincoln, admire his complexion by mimicking his stone expression, and reading what was inscribed on the inside walls. 

 

 

_ This is the day you realized you loved him. _

 

 

Miles was reading the words on the wall to you for what felt like the billionth time since you met him. Even then you knew that you would never get tired of hearing him say those words, while trying his best to sound as “old-timey,” as he usually liked to say, as possible. His head was tilted to the right, leaning in your direction, and there was a dorky, boyish grin on his face. 

 

 

 

“We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that—”

 

 

“I love you.” You interrupt. 

 

 

Miles looks down to you, eyes searching yours. His expression reads that he wasn’t entirely sure about what you had said, finding it unsafe to make any assumptions about your briefly spoken words that hang in between the two of you. Though you had dated before, several people, you had never been the first to say the notorious words. 

 

 

He blinked. “What?” 

 

 

You swallow back some nervousness and smile down at your shoes. “I love you.” You say again, finding the courage to look up at him. 

 

 

Finally confirming his thoughts, Miles smiles back down at you, returning the charisma, the hopelessness of being in love. “I love you too.” 

 

 

Your heart flutters. Ages ago, while the two of you were laying on the floor of his bedroom, he had told you that he didn’t believe in love. He had been hurt one too many times by people in the past, and he couldn’t bring himself to place his hope in the emotion anymore. It was a chemical imbalance in the brain, he would say sometimes, he didn’t want to hurt again. There he was, standing before you, telling him that he loved you in spite of all that. You vowed that day that you would do your best to never hurt him. You felt a weight lift from your shoulders. Life was starting to make sense now. 

 

 

He asked you to move into his apartment a year later. 

 

**______________**

 

_ September 21, 2013 _

_ Miles Upshur’s apartment, Washington DC _

 

 

It’s been three days since Miles Upshur disappeared. 

 

 

You knew it the day you had the nightmare about him getting killed. The two of you would always talk about being connected by an invisible tether. Miles said that it proved that you loved each other  _ that much _ . 

 

 

The day that you had been awoken by an abrupt, violent nightmare about his death, you could’ve sworn that you felt no one on the end of the tether. You knew it when you felt a heavy feeling on your shoulders, and a growing pain in your chest. Your grief manifested itself in the form of denial. In three days, all you’ve been doing is calling his phone, attempting to communicate with Mount Massive, and calling Murkoff itself. You were always redirected to an automated voice message of a woman’s ingenuous voice telling you “Your World, Our Business,” which you had recognized as the corporation’s tagline. You called the police, but they had already sent men to Mount Massive, and when they reported that those men never came back, they decided to cut all ties with the place. It was safer on the outside, far, far away from the asylum. You were quickly losing hope, mind growing desperate for answers about your better half, and it became clear to you just how much you really needed Miles. You were depressed: your stomach groaned that you needed food, your mind begged for rest, your joints ached from typing reports of his disappearance.

 

 

You couldn’t eat because the last time you did, your breakfast ended up in the toilet in the form of vomit, and you couldn’t sleep because you were constantly plagued by horrifying images of what could have happened to Miles in the asylum: fingers being cut right off by a ridiculously large pair of scissors that looked more like pliers, deranged patients, being thrown from windows, gunshots, fire, and an ominous, omnipresent being that the patients called the swarm. You didn’t know if this was all a product of your depressed mind, but it didn’t help your rapidly deteriorating health. Your unrest all showed in your eyes. You cried for what felt like years one day before you realized that sitting around doing nothing but lamenting about him wouldn’t help you locate him. 

 

 

It was on this day that you decided you would go look for him. 

 

 

You couldn’t help yourself. You missed Miles Upshur with an immeasurable amount of lament that you suspected it was beginning to kill you, and you were probably right. It was his smile, his laugh, his voice, his touch, the warmth of his embrace, the petty arguments you would get into every so often, staying up until three in the morning reading off articles you two had written, movie night, date night, cuddling up to each other while watching stupid, meaningless TV shows about things you don’t even remember. 

 

 

You missed Miles Upshur so much. 

 

 

You gathered everything that you thought was paramount to your survival: your camera, a small pocket knife, a flashlight, and a set of batteries. Apart from that, your mind scrambled to think of other supplies, but figured that anything else you took with you would only slow you down. You were determined for the first time since the night you were awoken by visions of your boyfriend’s untimely death, you were going to find him even if it cost you your life. 

 

 

Finally getting ready to leave your apartment, you paused, hearing the voices of two people (distinctly a man and a woman, couldn’t have been anything but). You didn’t move. Maybe they had news about Miles? Maybe they found him? It wasn’t his voice outside the door, but you had hoped against hope that it was him, somehow. 

 

 

You opened the door before the pair could even knock and braced yourself for the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a lot of stuff up TT^TT  
> I don't know where Miles went to school, but he strikes me as the kind of guy to love rock music. I hope this chapter is as saddening to read as it was for me to write.   
> I'm so sad now, I'm gonna cry for a bit.   
> Constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated!


	3. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad End.

You curl back into yourself when you receive the news: Miles Upshur is dead.

 

  
Dead. Gone.

 

 

This is not a trick—not a cruel, twisted prank, nor the selfish ploy of a heartless Murkoff employee; the man that you fell in love with, the brave freelance investigative journalist, is no longer with you, and you somehow knew it.

 

 

In the early hours of the morning, there was a growing pain in your chest and the ever present  sensation of distress in the pit of your stomach, in your _gut_ ; you knew something was wrong. You knew it the moment you woke up at ungodly hours of the morning after watching your boyfriend get gunned down mercilessly by soldiers bereft of conscious sympathy for the man they put down. At the end of the tether, the one that kept you connected to Miles, there was nothing. It was a weightless existence. Your heart ached, yearned for answers. Your brain denied you the right to think straight, you couldn’t eat, sleep, or leave the apartment.

 

 

The answers came to you in the form of two of Murkoff’s Mitigation Officers, Paul Marion and Pauline Glick. At the expense of losing all seriousness in the prevailing situation you found yourself in, you subconsciously decide to ignore the fact that the two had similar names, and stark contrasts of character. Pauline was sharp, even in her physical features; narrowed, cold eyes peered down her nose at you, a sharp jawline, lips pressed into a thin line, slicked back hair. She was long, and lean, and you could tell she was bad cop, her face seemed perpetually frozen in a permanent scowl. She was pretty, but entirely unapproachable. Paul was more soft, an entirely forgettable character had it not been for the news he was about to hit you with; standing at about the same height as Pauline, you found it ironic that he was an officer considering he was a bit fuller than his counterpart and had fluffy white hair and easy eyes. Unlike Pauline, Paul had a peaceful resting expression, a pleasant face like the kind a grandfather has. You study them through eyes swollen from crying as they stand at your door. Against all odds, you find that the two compliment each other perfectly.

 

 

“(F/N)(L/N),” Pauline says, voice blunt right off the bat. It sends shivers down your spine.

 

 

“Yes,” you confirm, eyeing them. Pauline eyes you back, in turn, you back down from her icy stare. “What’s this about? Who are you two?”

 

 

Almost in perfect sync, the two strangers handed you their cards. You studied their contents for a moment, and they were identical, save for the names on either one of them:

 

 

_“Your world, Our business_

_Murkoff Insurance Mitigation Department_

_PAULINE GLICK/PAUL MARION_

_Insurance Mitigation Officer_

_**___________________** _

_MURKOFF_

_CORPORATION”_

 

 

It isn’t long before you recognize the tag line, as well as the name of the insurance corporation that was notoriously behind whatever was happening at Mount Massive Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Tired eyes trail back up to the two officers in realization and you wordlessly let them into your apartment, letting them invade the brief privacy and whatever memories were left of Miles.

 

 

“I suppose you know why we’re here.” Pauline acknowledges. She doesn’t wait until you offer her a seat and takes her place adjacent from you. Paul doesn’t sit until you motion for the open space beside Pauline.

 

 

The whole ordeal was more than a little disquieting. For more than 72 hours now, you had been waiting for news on what had become of your boyfriend, and now the answers were sitting before you. The only thing that separated you from the pair was a coffee table and the stuffy, tense air in between. You couldn’t breathe, yet you speak.

 

 

“You’re here to tell me about Miles.” You rejoin with a solemn nod. “Miles Upshur,” you quickly correct, though you’re not sure there can be too many cases of missing young men named Miles with ties to Murkoff. “I’ve been calling Murkoff, but I get redirected every time to an awfully cavalier recording of a woman selling me your famous line.”

 

 

You stand and pace the room. “Miles went to Mount Massive Asylum for the Criminally Insane three days ago on account of a whistleblower reporting to us that they saw what was happening there. It was heinous, I assume, but Miles hasn’t come home since, and I am starting to have my doubts about—”

 

 

“Darling, sit down,” Paul instructs during your tirade about what may have happened to Miles. This is your first time hearing him speak. True to his character, his voice is soft and tired. “The news you’re about to receive are a little—”

 

 

“Miles Upshur is dead.” Pauline interrupts. Once again, she is blunt, even in releasing information about him.

 

 

You lower yourself into your previous spot with caution, and watch yourself to it. The happenings are so surreal that you can swear you’re watching yourself through the eyes of someone else, maybe Pauline and Paul’s eyes, or through a camera, as if you’re watching a movie. Your lungs start to rattle, your breathing becomes heavy and your chest rises and falls unevenly. Head reeling, eyes unfocusing through tears obscuring your vision, eyes now glassy. You blink and one tear rolls down slowly, more follow suit directly after, almost as if playing a depressing game of follow the leader. The salty water leaves streaks down your dirty face and you shake your head. You can’t speak for a long time, so Pauline does it for you. Her offhand demeanor both offends you and shakes you.

 

 

“Now, there is no record of a body found, but we found several of his belongings.” Pauline explains, voice loose, free of any weight that comes with telling someone that their loved one has mysteriously perished. “We imagine that Mr. Upshur perished in the asylum; it is very likely that he was attacked and killed by occupants of the asylum.”

 

 

“Here you are,” Paul says, searching through a briefcase and handing you some of Miles’ belongings.

 

 

You grimace at the sight of blood on a notepad and Miles’ words on it, scribblings of what he saw and encountered are  written in blue ink on yellow-tinted paper and a pair of AA batteries.

 

 

“He took a camera with him,” you quake. “Where’s his camera?”

 

 

“Unfortunately, Mr. Upshur accessed areas that were off limits to the public population,” Paul explains this time, his voice is slower, more understanding, and you can’t help but feel that he has also been affected by Murkoff in way he wouldn’t care to talk about. “I’m afraid that anything on that camera is considered strictly confidential and we can’t release it to you.”

 

 

You nod, understanding. Then, a thought protrudes your mind and you clutch the batteries, they click in your tightening fist. You scowl at the agents.

 

 

“If there was no body found, how can you be sure he’s dead?” You question, suddenly suspicious and hostile towards the two. “That’s what you said. There was no body, but,” you point an accusatory finger at Pauline, she glares in turn, “ _you_ told me he’s dead.”

 

 

“Don’t be stupid,” Pauline scoffs, completely dismissing your dejected denial, “do you think we wasted our time coming here to feed you lies? You’re so far in your denial that you can’t see there’s no way Miles could have survived an attack from anyone in that damn place.”

 

 

“How long did you look for him?” You shout now, Paul grimaces at the sudden change of your voice’s volume. The two stand, defensive, and you do as well. Your crying intensifies, big droplets of your expressed rage at the two. “I bet you went there, found his things and took the first plane down here! You didn’t even bother looking for him, did you? _Did you_?” You demand of them.

 

 

“Miles Upshur was nowhere to be found,” Paul rejoins finally, much to your dismay, he’s not telling the truth and you can feel it. “Murkoff agents searched all possible areas of Mount Massive, but Miles was nowhere to be found. I’m sorry, (F/N), but sending more agents there and using our resources for finding him will be ill-disposed. I’m sure you are aware; Mount Massive is a mean place. We cannot afford to lose more—”

 

 

“Get out of my apartment,” you quiver silently at first. They can’t hear you.

 

 

“What did you say?” Pauline challenges.

 

 

“Get out of my apartment!” You shriek now and in your dispirited rage slam Miles’ belongings onto the coffee table in between you. “Get out! Get out! Get out!” You sob. “You’re liars! Both of you are god-awful liars and I don’t want anything to do with _either_ of you or Murkoff!” You grieve finally.

 

 

It takes the two a while to finally back up towards the door. You can hear Pauline scoff and mutter something to Paul about how deranged you were, and that your denial would catch up to you and hit you like a freight train. You pay her no mind. In the end, the only one who lingers for a moment is Paul. He opens his mouth to say something that might be a dismayed apology, but decides against it. This goes unnoticed by you before he leaves.

 

 

You hear the door slam shut, you sink to your knees and your cries are the only thing heard throughout the small apartment.

 

 

You are left alone anew. The suffocating silence begins to eat at the remnants of your sanity.

 

**______________**

 

Hours pass before you force yourself out of your position on the floor.

 

 

Sometime during your crying fit, you curled up on the floor and cried until you felt yourself slip away. When you finally came to, you were awoken with a bitter, throbbing headache, swollen eyes and a runny nose. You groan and push yourself up, momentarily forgetting what you had just been through. You check the time.

 

 

It had been two hours since Pauline and Paul left your apartment, leaving you behind as a screaming, crying mess. Your eyes trail from the clock towards the coffee table and lock onto the scattered batteries and Miles’ notepad. Shaky hands pick it up, examining the neat writing. Once again you can tell you’re about to cry. Your throat tightens and you blink at Miles’ blurred words. You slowly read the first one and try your hardest not to imagine Miles standing before the asylum, writing the words you are now reading.

 

 

The first one reads:

 

 

" _I start feeling sick just looking at this place. Mount Massive Asylum, shut down amid scandal and government secrecy in 1971, reopened by Murkoff Psychiatric Systems in 2009 under the guise of a charitable organization. Cell phone reception cut off abruptly a mile out, more like a jammer than lost signal. The Murkoff Corporation has a long track record of disguising profit as charity. But never on American soil. Whatever they thought they could get out of this place has to be big. Might finally be the story that breaks the bastards.”_

 

 

“Oh god, Miles,” you whisper shakily towards the paper, as if he could hear you, “what happened to you?”

 

 

It takes you about an hour and a half to really read through all of his notes. You struggle to understand what he’s writing about, what he could have seen and what happened to him. Just like Miles, his writing is the embodiment of his voice. You can hear him saying everything that’s written in there, no matter how unprofessional his words may be (because you stumble across things like _“How to make Trager Juice”_ and _“Talks like a white collar business school douchebag”_ ). In spite of everything, you laugh at the ridiculousness of some of the words, but it comes out as a guttural, hysterical little cry.

 

 

Through them you find out that he kills someone, a man named Billy Hope , and that he knew survival at Mount Massive was hoping against hope. Both of you were fools for thinking he could make it out alive and in one piece. You grimace as your imagination begins to form images of what may have happened to him; did the big man in his notes kill him? The psychopathic doctor? What became of Miles Upshur was unknown to you, and even Murkoff’s Mitigation Officers couldn’t help you in the slightest. At the very least, they gave you some hints.

 

 

You sigh and set aside the notes, taking a moment to breathe. Considering that it was a lot of information to take it at once, you decided that you were doing well for someone who had just lost the love of their life.

 

 

Tired eyes scan the living room and happen across your small bag of essentials for survival. You blink, suddenly remembering how determined you were to find Miles yourself before you shortly-lived trek was interrupted by the Pauls. In a frenzy, you scatter the notes over the coffee table in search of the last one. Once you find it, you pull it out of the messy stack and push yourself out of your awkward seating arrangement. Your eyes search once more for the bag before locating it and sling it over your shoulder.

 

 

“If Murkoff doesn’t want to look for you,” you hiss as you slide on the jacket (one of Miles’ jackets) that was hanging on the coat rack directly to the left of the front door, “then I will.”

 

 

You pick up the keys to your old, beat up 1999 Toyota Camry and lock up the apartment behind your back. The only things with you are what you had previously packed and you make your way down the stairs, click the button on your car keys once. It beeps. You look back up to your apartment one last time before climbing into your car and speeding off.

**______________**

 

 

It takes you roughly 27 hours of ceaseless driving to finally reach Mount Massive Asylum, and when you finally do you’re too tired to make out any of the blurred shapes before you. Your determination has since then only increased. You had decided then that there would be nothing to hold you back from finding Miles, even if it was in the form of a dead body. You needed the closure, you needed to see him just one more time.

 

 

You sigh and gather yourself as you park your car at the entrance of the asylum and stare up at it. True to its name, it is indeed massive and its aura alone leaves you shaken down to your core. It’s all almost enough to send you all the way back home to DC, but it doesn’t. You stare up at it from your car, one leg in and one out. Dark clouds hang overhead, blocking the sun and giving it more of an eery vibe. In your opinion, the prison-esque asylum belongs in a Hollywood horror movie. Faintly making out spots of blood on the windows that aren’t broken sends shivers down your spine and the dilapidated state of decay the asylum stands still in sends your imagination into a frenzy. A breeze kicks up some leaves, scatters them and howls as it pushes aside your hair. You shudder and shove your hands into your pocket. There, you feel the folded up note written by Miles Upshur, the last one that he had written based on the order in which Paul handed to you.

 

 

You pull the note from your pocket and unfold it carefully before reading Miles’ words on the blood-splattered sheet of paper.

 

 

_“Billy is dead, the Walrider, the Swarm, whatever it is, unmade with him. Whether I escape or die here, I am free_ . _”_

 

 

Eyes travel from the paper before you up to the asylum, ominously casting a shadow over you. You fold the note up slowly and shove it back into your pocket, gather your belongings and slam your car door shut.

 

 

You walk towards Mount Massive in your quest to find Miles Upshur, determined to save him.

 

 

The rest of the world fades to black behind you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annd that's a wrap! Thank you so much for reading this fanfic! I hope I didn't make anyone as sad as I made myself. :(  
> I miss Miles so much! As usual, constructive criticism and kudos are appreciated! Thanks a bunch.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all had your permission slips signed for the Feels Trip.  
> Constructive Criticism is appreciated and welcome!  
> (p.s Guys, I really love Miles Upshur and I one-hundred percent believe he deserved a better ending for all of his hard work).


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